


The Gathering Storm

by Lady_Aran



Series: Love is a Battlefield [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (More) Tywin Lannister's Verbal Bitchslaps, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Brienne, BAMF Jaime Lannister, Brienne is the Best, Childbirth, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff, Gen, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Jaime Has Blue Eyes Like Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Jaime brings the hugs and the snark, Light Angst, Marriage, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other: See Story Notes, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Protective Jaime Lannister, Romance, Self-Doubt, Sexual Content, Tags May Change, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-10-23 19:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17689829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Aran/pseuds/Lady_Aran
Summary: Greetings my lovelies! I'm back with the next book in this little series of mine after a bit of a break (and doing battle with the evil writer's block) and ready to take you all on yet another journey with my two favorite Westerosi idiots in love. Before beginning this story, however, if you haven't done so already I highly recommend reading the previous story, otherwise you won't know what the hell is going on in this one, as the stories are meant to accompany each other.Also, unlike the last story, which had a quite a few characters interacting, this one will be almost entirely focused on Jaime and Brienne and their journey together, with occasional focus on the other characters listed.Everybody ready? Excellent! Let's begin! *Turns up "Dragonstone" song***UPDATE 5/18/19** My Shingles are gone, woohoo! Because of that and the cluster (thus far) that is season 8 of Game of Thrones I've had to put this baby on the backburner for a bit. In that time, I've decided to do a bit of a rewrite of this fic, as it's still early in the game. And depending on how tomorrow night's series finale goes (fingers crossed for Jaime, y'all!) I'll be doing a rewrite of season 8 as well. Catch you on the flip side, my lovelies!**





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WeirdDaydreamingFangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeirdDaydreamingFangirl/gifts), [sea_spirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_spirit/gifts), [Julieoftarth (Wherethereissmoak)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wherethereissmoak/gifts), [hardlyfatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/gifts), [WackyGoofball](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WackyGoofball/gifts).



> Greetings my lovelies! I'm back with the next book in this little series of mine after a bit of a break (and doing battle with the evil writer's block) and ready to take you all on yet another journey with my two favorite Westerosi idiots in love. Before beginning this story, however, if you haven't done so already I highly recommend reading the previous story, otherwise you won't know what the hell is going on in this one, as the stories are meant to accompany each other. 
> 
> Also, unlike the last story, which had a quite a few characters interacting, this one will be almost entirely focused on Jaime and Brienne and their journey together, with occasional focus on the other characters listed. 
> 
> Everybody ready? Excellent! Let's begin! *Turns up "Dragonstone" song* 
> 
> **UPDATE 5/18/19** My Shingles are gone, woohoo! Because of that and the cluster (thus far) that is season 8 of Game of Thrones I've had to put this baby on the backburner for a bit. In that time, I've decided to do a bit of a rewrite of this fic, as it's still early in the game. And depending on how tomorrow night's series finale goes (fingers crossed for Jaime, y'all!) I'll be doing a rewrite of season 8 as well. Catch you on the flip side, my lovelies!**

Heir or not, Tywin Lannister couldn't begin to express just how furious he was with his eldest son, Jaime, for having disobeyed a direct order to await the arrival of the escort he'd assigned to accompany him and Brienne of Tarth on their journey to Casterly Rock. With Jaime having become a cripple and Brienne carrying the first in what Tywin hoped was a long line of Lannister heirs, the patriarch of House Lannister dared not to tempt the future of his House and so had ordered a small band of soldiers to accompany the soon-to-be Lord and Lady Lannister on their journey should they encounter any conflict during their travels.

 

But far more troubling to Lord Tywin, however, was the message he'd received via raven a fortnight ago. A poorly written message from Jaime. Jaime's writing had always been inept and painful to read, with Tywin realizing early on that the sword was far mightier than the pen as far as young Jaime was concerned. Brienne had suddenly fallen ill shortly into their journey to Casterly Rock, forcing Jaime to ride for the village of Rivermouth, where it was discovered Brienne had been given a lethal dose of Essence of Nightshade by Qyburn just before they'd departed King's Landing. It had also been laced with Moon Tea in an attempt to kill Brienne and Jaime's unborn child. And if that was not enough cause for Tywin's concern, Jaime had ended the letter with the news that he and Brienne would not be heading to Casterly Rock, but to Tarth instead!

 

Upon having finally deciphered the letter written in Jaime's immature hand, Lord Tywin promptly ordered for Qyburn to be arrested.

 

* * *

 

“This looks like a quiet place to make camp for the night, my wench. We'll start again fresh at first light. Besides, it's important that you rest.”

 

“The Kingswood? We can go a bit further, Jaime -- I feel fine. The sun is only just now starting to set.”

 

Though Brienne was right and it was just starting to get dark, Jaime remains adamant that they stop for the night -- much to the hardy (albeit stubborn) lady-knight's chagrin -- and promptly dismounts his steed once they reach a wide berth surrounded by a small stream and relatively flat terrain. The pair have been riding hard for the last two weeks since leaving Rivermouth, bearing the saddle sores, stiff joints and fatigue to prove such efforts. Not in vain, however, for they do so knowing what awaits them at Storm's End: the ship that will take them to Tarth, the crown jewel of Shipbreaker Bay.

 

Brienne sighs before attempting to dismount her own horse, only to become mildly annoyed when she feels Jaime's palm against her lower back. “I can do it just fine by myself, Jaime. Believe me, if I couldn't, then I wouldn't even be atop this horse to begin with.”

 

Jaime, however, is persistent in his assistance. “Stubborn wench, will you allow me to help you just this once?” he asks.

 

“I suppose, if doing so will ease your troubled mind.” Brienne replies with an unseen roll of her big blue eyes.

 

Having grown up as Selwyn Tarth's only living child and subsequent heir – Brienne's twin sisters both perished in the cradle; her older brother Galladon drowned when he was only eight years old – Brienne hadn't the luxury of being able to depend on the safety and security siblings (for the most part) provided; and her father had always encouraged her to be an independent – a fact he'd been forced to accept only after the spectacular failures of each of Brienne's three prospective betrothals – and resilient woman. When it came to being independent, Brienne hadn't looked back since the very first day she'd donned the mail and brandished a sword.

 

So to suddenly go from being fiercely independent to having somebody – not just anybody, however, but the singular Jaime Lannister himself – constantly dotting on her now made Brienne feel rather uncomfortable to say the least.

 

After a simple meal of roasted rabbit Jaime was able to trap and skin himself (and incessantly gloated about afterwards), the pair settle for the night, the fire softly crackling before them, when Jaime utters a harmless observation about the recent changes in Brienne's figure. “Eighteen weeks and your belly has begun to flower, wench. It suits you... Though considering this is your first, I'm unsure if I should feel a queer sense of pride or unease,” he tells her with a smile as they lay stretched out on the ground before reaching over to cup the slight bulge beneath Brienne's thick blue gambeson, only to frown when she shrugs off his gesture of affection towards his unborn child with a sigh of irritation.

 

“What's the matter?” he asks, trying to hide his dejection. “Don't tell me I've been barred from showering both you and our little lion with love now that you're looking so godsdamned ravishing, wench.”

 

“It's not that, Jaime. I'm just tired,” comes Brienne's reply before feeling Jaime's hand caress her shoulder. She shrugs it off. “Please, Jaime. Not now, I'm exhausted.”

 

“Says the woman who insisted that she felt fine, and that we ride a bit further.” he jests with a chuckle.

 

Brienne scrambles to her feet far more agile than her exhaustion would suggest, visually trembling from anger. “No! I _am_ tired – of _you_!”

 

“Seven Hells, keep your voice down!” Jaime replies before frowning. “And just what do you mean by that? What have I done?”

 

She stomps back and forth across the small camp in a huff, leaves and twigs cracking beneath her fury. “You _hover_ , Jaime! Ever since we left Rivermouth you've been my shadow and it's become bloody aggravating!”

 

Jaime's body bristles at Brienne's accusation, yet his contempt is merely a mask to hide the hurt in his eyes. “Hover? I'm not certain if you know this – my money is on not – but it's called being a proper lord to his lady, and father to his child, Brienne!”

 

She turns her back to him, picking the dead bark off a tree with her fingernail. “It's unnerving! Just because I am with your child, doesn't mean I need you pestering me like some common tavern fly every bloody second! I'm still plenty capable of doing things myself!” she spits, her voice sounding far angrier than she'd intended. Before she can turn to face him to apologize, the pained look on Jaime's face is more than enough to tell Brienne of the damage her words have inflicted upon the knight, and she suddenly feels her stomach sour. “...Jaime, I...”

 

Jaime's brow sharpens. “...Is that how you see me, Brienne? How you see all that I strive to be to you, _for_ you? And to the child – our child -- growing in your womb? As nothing more than a pestilence?” he asks, nearly unable to find his words for once.

 

Brienne, her eyes big and shimmering, swallows hard. “I...I didn't mean it like that, Jaime. Please believe me. I'm sorry.” she pleads, chin quivering as her cheeks flush and her legs strive to meet him. Standing before him, the air heavy with tension and silence, Brienne's gaze finds his once more; Jaime's pain is palpable, the lump in his throat bobs as he swallows back the bitter, acrid taste of hurt. A knife the size of Westeros itself twists in her heart as Brienne reaches to take his hand into hers, relieved when he allows her such pleasure, only to kiss his knuckles.

 

“I truly didn't mean to hurt you, Jaime. I'm just...having difficulty in allowing myself to accept the fact that someone truly does love and care for me; would do anything for me as I would for them, no strings attached. The only people who have ever cared about me are my father and...Renly, even if his love and care was purely platonic.”

 

Jaime's hand finds the back of Brienne's neck, the limber digits fussing with wisps of her pale blonde hair. “Brienne,” he sighs, “I've not been this way to you because I'm expecting something material in return. Nor do I tend to you in order to make you feel weak. I do what I do for you because I love you and that little lion cub you've got growing inside you. And I'll do anything to make sure you are both safe and well cared for. And if I have to be a miserable pain in your ass to ensure than no ill befalls either of you, then that's what I'll do.”

 

Brienne attempts to mask her tears but her voice betrays her. “Jaime, I...I'm just so frightened of the moonturns, and the years, to come... I don't even know if I'm capable of being a proper mother to our child, never knowing my own...”

 

Concern flashes across Jaime's chiseled features. “W...what exactly are you trying to say?” he stammers, panic suddenly filling his heart.

 

Brienne shakes her head in adamant protest. “Gods, no, Jaime. No.” She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her gambeson. “I am just finding this all to be suddenly overwhelming, is all I meant to say. My mother died when I was so young I cannot even remember her, and Septa Roelle was far more concerned with making sure I knew I was a freak who would never be loved unconditionally by a man than teaching me about womanhood.” Brienne draws a shaky breath to calm herself but the tears quickly return.

 

Jaime's lips curve into a mild frown. _So you must have been frightened the first time you woke to see your sheets stained from your first flowering, or found hair in strange places,_ he tells her within the privacy of his mind, feeling sudden sympathy for the mulish and awkward young girl Brienne had been once, and scorn towards her septa. “And what of Septa Roelle now?”

 

Brienne shrugs. “Last I remember, she was still serving Evenfall Hall. That was the day I'd left Tarth to serve Lord Renly at Storm's End. I can still remember that sour, disapproving look on her face... She very well may still be there, but it's been so long since I've been home.”

 

Jaime's features harden. “No matter the case, I'll not have that woman anywhere near our child – that includes while it still slumbers in your womb, Brienne. And nobody, not even your father the Evenstar, will persuade me otherwise...” His flesh hand plays with the lower laces of her gambeson, a subtle grin cocking a corner of his mouth at Brienne's unspoken acceptance of the gesture, undoing just enough of them to be able to spread the thick flaps open and feel the small swell of flesh underneath. “You and this baby mean more to me than anything else in this world, Brienne. There's nothing I wouldn't do if it meant keeping you both safe.”

 

Brienne wills her hand to rest atop Jaime's. “I apologize for being so short with you, Jaime. I know you are just trying to keep us safe. I am just not used to being fussed over so intensely.” she explains with a warm, albeit brief, smile on her face. “Lately I've just felt as if I've lost all control over myself. That is the only thing I've ever had control over in this life, and to suddenly lose that control is terrifying.”

 

Jaime nods. “I can understand that in a way. Before I lost my sword hand, I'd wager there to be no more than three men in the entire realm who were able to stand with me in a fight. I was _that_ confident in my ability because it was the only thing in my life that I truly had control over. And then after I lost that control, well, you remember... The point I'm trying to make is, maybe it is good to lose that control sometimes. Maybe instead of helping us it was actually hindering who we were always meant to become.”

 

Brienne glances at Jaime, one pale brow cocked. “When did you become such a learned man?” she asks with a grin.

 

Jaime grins back at her, and Brienne feels her insecurities melt for a moment. “I'm not, believe me. Father always said I was a slow learner.” He leans in to kiss her pale cheek mottled with pale yellow splotches. “And maybe he's right. But not when it comes to protecting family.”

 

Brienne, in her unspoken understanding of Jaime Lannister, is quick to pick up on the darker intent of that last sentence. “But you are a knight, Jaime. You are bound by honor.”

 

“Not when it comes to family.” Jaime rebukes. “Family is something that goes far beyond honor and oaths, for one cannot exist in this world without it.” He wills his hand into a slow caress around Brienne's stomach, lips straight and eyes full of determination. “And I will fight to protect mine.”

 

Jaime's eyes widen for a moment as silence settles between them, for he is surprised by how much he'd just sounded like his father. As far back as he could remember, Jaime had always heard Tywin preach about family and how it mattered above all else. And certainly above a man's own foolish desires and beliefs. _“For when that man was dead and rotting in the earth,”_ he'd heard his father tell him once, _“his legacy lives on. Desires are but fleeting glimpses, but family is forever.”_

 

“Is something wrong, Jaime? You look like you've seen a phantom.” comments Brienne.

 

Jaime's eyes quickly return to their normal size. “Couldn't be better, my wench.” he reassures her before taking hold of her hand and leading them back to their simple sleeping space. After settling, Jaime grins over Brienne's broad shoulder. “May I?” he asks, arms ready to sling around her thick form.

 

Rather than reply, Brienne simply reaches for Jaime's arms, drawing them around her. She sighs, content, upon feeling Jaime's fingers combing gently against the open midsection of her gambeson and the soft swell of her flesh beneath it. Brienne's eyes fall closed. “Goodnight, Jaime.”

 

“We'll never get to sleep if you don't stop talking, wench.” Jaime jests with a grin.

 

Brienne groans before her eyes fall closed once more. “Seven Hells, will you please? How do you expect me to nurture the child in my belly when you won't allow me to rest?”

 

Jaime merely snuggles hard into her strong back before beginning his descent into sleep. “Goodnight, wench.”

 

Brienne's hand finds Jaime's before allowing herself to join him in much-needed sleep.

 


	2. A Woman's Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion begins his own journey; Brienne doubts her capabilities as a woman and a mother; Jaime and Brienne stumble upon a casualty of the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! Back again with the next chapter. Thank you to all who have commented or left kudos thus far. Ya'll are fabulous and I can't thank you enough <3 
> 
> Big "thank you!" to the fabulous WeirdDayDreamingFanGirl for her feedback and assistance :)

Tyrion Lannister had seen the raven a fortnight ago, and had instantly felt his heart skip a beat at the oft uneasy sight of a raven in flight, with that tiny slip of rolled parchment in its talons, intent on delivering what was most likely dire news from far away. His thoughts had instantly turned to his brother and Lady Brienne – had something happened to them on their journey to Casterly Rock? Unlike Tyrion, Jaime had a tendency to be brutally impulsive -- though not so much as their sister, thank the Seven -- and when he'd left the capital with Brienne at his side that day, Tyrion had cautioned the Lion to rethink his decision to forgo the escort their father had assigned for the journey and instead travel alone with Brienne. Despite the late King Joffrey's claims that the war was over, Tyrion knew better. And he knew Jaime also knew better – which had made the sight of the raven anger Tyrion all the more.

 

It hadn't been easy, but the Little Lion had somehow managed to sneak into his father's chambers inside the Tower of the Hand while the Lannister patriarch, having some rare free time on his hands, was out fishing on the coast of King's Landing closest to the Red Keep. Sure as the Seven Hells, Tyrion had found the small, rolled parchment atop Tywin's desk and quickly skimmed over the letter written in Jaime's child-like hand, his keen mind storing every word within before returning the parchment to its former state and hastily waddling his way out of the room.

 

With no escort, his brother a crippled lion, Lady Tarth with child, and unrest still prevalent throughout the Realm, Tyrion knew the pair were in what he considered to be inevitable danger, and so gathered the only two people in King's Landing he trusted to accompany him on his search for Jaime and Brienne: the sellsword, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, alongside Podrick Payne, Tyrion's loyal former squire now in the service of Brienne of Tarth. Clearly, The Dragon wasn't the only thing with three heads. Lions, it seemed, did as well.

 

“When this is all over and we've found that cunt brother of yours and the Big Woman, I'm expecting to get a fine castle and an even finer broad out of this, you little fucker. I had a good thing going in Stokeworth with Lollys,” gripes Bronn as he, Tyrion and Podrick ride along, having barely cleared the capital, even after nearly three days of riding, thanks in part to Podrick's less than stellar command of his horse. While Podrick may have served as Tyrion's squire for the past couple years, most of his duties had been more handmaiden than squire – keep Tyrion's chambers stocked with wine, fetch his meals, keep his linens clean... But mostly, he poured him wine. So. Much. Wine.

 

“I'm afraid I'm rather light on castles at the moment, my friend. I can, however, line your pockets with gold, and your bed with only the finest whores. For a Lannister--”

 

“Don't say it. Don't even fucking say it.” interrupts Bronn with a slight of his hand.

 

“always pays his debts,” finishes Tyrion. _And holds grudges_ , he adds mentally, remembering the rather tense way in which he and Jaime had parted on such uncertain terms.

 

“Why is it so important that we find the Cripple and the Big Woman?” asks Bronn in his typical colorful tongue. “Not that I give two shits about your brother or anything.”

 

Tyrion sighs. “My brother Jaime, and Lady Tarth, you mean to say. As my father's heir, Jaime is to become the Lord of our ancestral House seat at Casterly Rock, and the new Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. If he is lost, so is House Lannister; as Lord Selwyn Tarth's sole heir, Lady Brienne is in time set to become the new Evenstar; and with the arrangement between our Houses, she very well may become Lady Paramount of the Stormlands considering the region is still a volatile power vacuum in need of a proper Paramount. She's also with the first of what my father hopes is a long line of Lannister heirs; like Jaime, if she is lost, so too is House Lannister.”

 

“Well, then, perhaps it's best if we focus on protecting your brother. He can find himself a new wife if Brienne and or the baby dies. I'm sure he has enough seed for it,” snickers Bronn. “Should be grateful he still has a cock.”

 

“You don't know my brother, clearly. He gave up Casterly Rock for love once. Took the White Cloak for two decades for love. A poisoned love, to be certain, but love nevertheless. What makes you think he will take another wife if Lady Brienne dies?” asks Tyrion.

 

Bronn's weathered brow lifts with amusement, voice smug. “Because I would. Ain't giving myself a case of the blue balls just to honor some dead broad.”

 

“The bond between my brother and Lady Brienne goes far beyond mere coitus, my friend; they've been through traumas together few have had the unfortunate pleasure of enduring and still come out alive. There are few bonds stronger than those forged from the fires of trial and tribulation.” notes Tyrion. “In other words, my brother and Lady Brienne are very much committed to each other...”

 

A wistful sigh comes from the sellsword, “Shame, it is, really. A woman that big, bet she could break a bed or two and take a lot...” he muses.

 

“Do I detect envy in your tone, Ser Bronn?” jests Tyrion.

 

Bronn snorts and shakes his head in protest. “Fuck off, pampered little shit. She's as ugly as the Seven Hells and freakish big; I would lay with her only if I were shit-faced or on my deathbed. Couldn't imagine wakin' up next to that. Almost makes me feel sorry for your brother.”

 

Tyrion bristles whilst coercing his horse to an abrupt stop. “While I value our friendship, allow me to make one thing absolutely clear going forward – Think what you wish of Lady Brienne, but I won't have you insult her while in my presence. I will forever be in her debt for saving my life; the odds she was up against were nothing short of astounding. And unlike a certain sellsword I know, Lady Tarth asked nothing in return for her service in besting The Mountain.”

 

Bronn merely grins. “Aye, you're a cocky little fucker. I like it.”

 

“Good. You'd do best to remember that.” Tyrion notes before gently coaxing his steed into a brisk trot.

 

* * *

 

After the hard, morning push through the heavy brush and fertile, muddy bogs of the Kingswood left both horse and rider exhausted, Brienne – much to Jaime's surprise – suggested they rest for a while at the next inn they came across; although Brienne hadn't explicitly stated otherwise, Jaime could see just how much the hard ride had taxed her mind and body as he currently looks at her sitting across from him at the tavern table, picking listlessly at her half-eaten kidney pie, her usually ponderous, sapphire eyes appearing heavy and sullen.

 

“You look tired, wench. Perhaps it was good that we stopped, then.” Jaime concedes before shoveling a forkful of the meat pie into his mouth.

 

The table grows quiet for a few moments while Jaime masticates his bear-sized bite of food. “Must you eat like a Wildling?” Brienne quips, gulping back her nausea with a quick swig of water.

 

Jaime swallows, only to wash it down with a quick swig of water – Brienne thought he'd been joking when he'd told her he wouldn't be partaking in ale for the entirety of her pregnancy as a show of solidarity. And yet, he'd kept his word. “Apologies, my lady. But a man can only exist on dried meat and fruit for so long before he...requires something a bit more substantial.” He gestures at his companion's food with his fork. “Speaking of which, you need to eat, Brienne. If not for yourself, then at least for our little lion.”

 

“I'm aware, Jaime,” Brienne whispers with a hint of annoyance. “But I'm afraid our little lion has forced me to become far more sensitive to smells I'd normally find to be nothing more than a nuisance, amongst other things. Excuse me, Jaime.”

 

Jaime watches her rise from the bench. “Brienne?” he asks, starting to his feet. “Are you going to be sick?”

 

“Don't get up, please.” Brienne replies, one hand attempting to hide the small swell of her midsection from any eyes that may attempt to pry; she knows, however, that she won't be able to mask it for much longer, as even her jerkin has become rather snug across her stomach in recent weeks.

 

Jaime settles back down, watching with concern as Brienne drags herself up the wooden stairs, hearing them groan underneath her bulk before she disappears upstairs. _Stubborn wench. I know she is not well, no matter how much she professes otherwise... Perhaps it was unwise of me to remove her from the capital so soon after her duel against Gregor Clegane, and the early stages of her pregnancy...? But surely she knew of the dangers should we have stayed in that cesspool, she'd told me herself she would never go back there. Why, then, do I feel like this is all my fault?_

 

Jaime exudes a stressed sigh as he downs the last of his water before coming to his feet; he fumbles with the coin purse on his belt on approach to the inn keeper. “I'll be needing to extend our stay for overnight, if that isn't too much trouble...”

 

* * *

 

Once he's upstairs, Jaime gives a gentle knock upon the door. “Brienne?” he calls, pressing his ear against the heavy door. Sobbing on the other side. “I'm coming in.” Jaime announces calmly, opening the door to find Brienne curled up on the featherbed with her long legs held tight against her chest. Jaime quickly shuts the door, bars it, and rushes to her side. “Brienne, what is it? What's wrong? Is it the baby?”

 

But Brienne refuses to lift her pale blonde head from her knees and look upon him, fearing the state in which she looks, her features made even more garish by the tears streaming down her puffy face. “Go away, Jaime. I don't want you to see me like this.”

 

“Like how?” Jaime asks, his fingers tracing her knee. “When are you going to realize I don't care what you look like?” He places a kiss upon her head for emphasis. “Look at me, Brienne; my wench; my lady wife of Lannister and mother of my child... Please?”

 

“Don't call me that, Jaime, please. I feel bad enough as it is without the need for titles to further reiterate the fact.” Brienne broods, her voice muffled.

 

Jaime allows his hand to comb through Brienne's lengthening tresses, tucking a loose strand behind her ear before kissing the top of her temple and drawing his arm around her shoulders. “Hush now, Brienne,” he soothes. “Why in Seven Hells would you – now known far and wide as _Brienne The Brave_ for slaying Gregor Clegane – even harbor such thoughts about yourself?”

 

“I wouldn't expect you to understand, Jaime, not being a woman yourself.”

 

Jaime snorts. “Don't give me that, wench. While I don't have my brother's smarts, even I know whatever is troubling you goes deeper than merely being with child.”

 

Brienne raises her head to gaze upon Jaime, her eyes bloodshot and puffy, cheeks rosy. “...What if I can't...?” she breathes.

 

Jaime coaxes gently. “Can't what?”

 

Brienne frowns, her chin wobbling. “Can't do it,” she croaks, gulping back a fresh round of tears. “I do not bear a woman's courage.”

 

 _The birth_ , Jaime realizes. Yet he is unsure how to respond, having never been forced into that experience, thank the Seven. His mind can only drift back to Cersei's experiences in childbed, and the experience of his mother during Tyrion's birth. Their labors had been hard. Lengthy. He remembers how Cersei had been in agonizing labor with Joffrey for nearly two days before the cursed little thing finally came screaming into the world; how his own mother had labored so hard with Tyrion that it killed her, forever driving a wedge between the surviving Lannisters... 

 

But Cersei, Joanna... Brienne was unlike the both of them, Jaime knew. For all of her battle courage, Brienne was unsure of herself in everything else outside of battle, and required a certain gentleness that had been foreign to Jaime for much of his life. He'd always been taught to treat gentleness as weakness, that gentle hearts were the first to cease beating during times of strafe. _'Gentle hearts have no place on the battlefield,'_ Tywin had told Jaime when he was just a boy. _'Not on the field, and certainly not in life.'_ If that was true, then, why had he been sworn to protect those that, in his father's eyes, did not matter?

 

Jaime coaxes Brienne to look at him, his eyes gazing into hers with determination. “I'd fight the Seven with just my feet if it meant being able bear the burden for you, Brienne, but these words are all I can offer you. Know, however, that I say these words with nothing but my love for you. You won't have to go through this alone. I will be here, and may the Seven have mercy on anyone who who tries to get in my way."

 

"But it doesn't change the fact that I'm not like other wo--"

  
"No, you're not like other women -- but that's what makes you you, Brienne. That doesn't mean you don't have a woman's courage. Your heart is as soft as any maiden's, else you would have killed me in the first two hours after we first met,” grins Jaime, playfully prying open her curled body before lowering her to rest upon the featherbed, hand fumbling with the laces of her jerkin from hem to breast, only to paw at the flesh underneath for a moment before his gaze upon her turns sultry and his hand dances along the hem of her breeches. “But if you're still not certain about your womanly attributes...,” His limber fingers comb through her coarse curls, and down further still to sample the velveteen texture of her folds. "...I'd be happy to remind you."

  
Brienne feels her face turn beet red at Jaime's advances and the warmth pooling betwixt her legs; yet she is exhausted from crying, from the morning ride, from the life growing within her and the thought of the moonturns to come. She moves into a stretch of her arms with Jaime still on top of her, his hand having taken interest in her belly. "I'm tired,” Brienne yawns. “Can we go to bed instead?"

  
Jaime gives her a warm smile, knowing this place probably wasn't the best to make love to his lady. Word had way of getting around faster than the spread of wildfire. Luckily, however, their changing looks over the course of their travels had allowed them enough of a natural disguise to keep potentially prying eyes at bay. "Of course," he tells her before placing a tender kiss upon her forehead, then an even softer one upon her eyelids and the tip of her nose before moving to lie next to her.

  
"Can you hold me while I go to sleep, Jaime?" Brienne asks sheepishly in the silence. _Seven Hells, did I just say that? It would appear you are changing more than just my body, my little lion..._

 

“As my lady commands.” Jaime merely smiles before spooning her big body from behind and holding on tight. He can't help but grin over her shoulder. “Remind me again why you do not think you're woman enough, Brienne – you seem to be acting like one right now.”

 

He feels Brienne bristle in his embrace and promptly adds, “Do not take offense, my wench. I was going to say that I'm rather enjoying this new side of you. It, too, suits you.”

 

“What's the point you're trying to make besides keeping me awake, Jaime?” Brienne groans.

 

“My point is, that the lion – and you are a lion now, or will be very soon – doesn't concern themselves with the opinions of the sheep, Brienne. Why should you give two shits about what others would think if they saw Big Brienne cry, or deemed you as being bare of a woman's courage? You are a Lioness of Lannister! Therefore, my wench, the opinions of the sheep are yours to shit on!”

 

Brienne simply smiles, her hand coming to rest atop Jaime's. _One thing you will soon discover, my little lion, is that your father doesn't have many moments, but what he lacks in them, he makes up for with honesty and a wisdom not unlike your uncle Tyrion. And it is my hope that you will find comfort in your father's words, just as I have, from your first breath till your last..._

 

“I suppose so... Goodnight, Jaime.”

 

* * *

 

Jaime and Brienne resume their journey at first light, to the smell of fresh rain and a mugginess in the air that clings to their skin like warm dew. Dense fog covers the forest canopy of the Kingswood like a shroud, obstructing the way forward and providing ample cloaking for dangers that may be lurking in the mist. The pair ride with caution as a result; ever the knight – and to Jaime's unease – Brienne opts to ride a few steps ahead of Jaime, her sword hand dutifully fixed around Oathkeeper's hilt, ready to brandish the blade at a moment's notice.

 

At nearly five moonturns along with child, Brienne's body wasn't the only thing going through near constant change. Her senses, too, were changing in ways – both good and bad – that she'd never thought possible. Certain smells intoxicated her, while others repulsed her; food tasted better -- or worse depending on the circumstance; she'd become overly sensitive to touch and subsequently being touched; her vision, always having been as sharp as a raven's, had lost some of its crispness but it was more of a nuisance than a matter of great importance. As she continues deeper into the Kingswood, with Jaime nipping at her heels and the world around her covered in wet fog, however, Brienne suddenly coaxes her mount to cease, her astute sense of hearing having picked up the distant rustling of shrubbery. Her grip around Oathkeeper instinctively tightens.

 

“Why are we stopping?” asks Jaime, perplexed.

 

In spite of the fog, Brienne makes a futile attempt to survey the area with her eyes. “I heard something,” she murmurs, hairs on the back of her neck prickling. “It's close.”

 

Jaime looks around, having not heard anything, nor being able to see through the mist, confused. “Have you gone mad, wench? I didn't hear anything.”

 

 _'That's because you're not with child,'_ she'd wanted to say in response. “Well I did,” Brienne replies before dismounting her steed with caution. Her grip returns to Oathkeeper. “Remain here while I have a look around, Jaime.”

 

But Jaime, sharing his lady knight's penchant for mulishness, has already dismounted before the first words had a chance to come out of Brienne's mouth. “I don't think so, Brienne. Like I told you at the start of this journey – I'll be on you like stink on shit.” he grins.

 

Brienne sighs. “You're insufferable, do you know that?”

 

He snickers. “You say that like it's a bad thing, wench. I rather think it to be one of my more endearing qualities.”

 

Brienne rolls her eyes before beginning into the misty forest without so much as another word to her witty companion.

 

Their trek doesn't take them very deep into the forest before they stumble upon a tiny refuge made from branches strewn together into a shelter just big enough for a small child. A small fire struggles to breath in the center of the camp, the fuels too damp to provide any real warmth other than a sickly glow. “And here I thought my brother was the only dwarf in Westeros,” Jaime jests, nonchalant, as he and Brienne survey the area.

 

“I'm not a imp...” comes a sudden, meek voice from behind them, child-like in its essence.

 

The pair confront the voice, swords half drawn, only to find a young boy; filthy, malnourished, and bruised from head to toe, looking up at them with big brown eyes and stringy, short brown hair, his clothes ragged and dirty. Even the sight of two people with swords at the ready isn't enough to strike terror into the child, suggesting that he's already seen too much horror in his young life. Brienne feels her chin quiver at the sight before sheathing Oathkeeper and taking a knee. She offers the scared child a warm smile. “Of course you're not, little one. I know you're a boy. And quite a precious one at that.”

 

Jaime splits his focus between the child and watching for threats. “You'd be wise to make this quick, Brienne... In this mist we're blind to anything that might be lurking out here.”

 

“Are you a boy or girl?” asks the child, his big eyes fixated on Brienne's face, unsure of what to make of her.

 

“A girl.”

 

“But you have a sword,” replies the boy whilst pointing at the ornate sword at her hip. “Only boys have swords.”

 

“I'm not like other girls,” Brienne muses with a a soft, proud, smile. “Can you tell me your name?”

 

“Olivar...” murmurs the boy.

 

“Seven Blessings to you, Olivar. I'm Brienne of Tarth.” She acknowledges Jaime with a nod, “And this is Ser Jaime Lannister.”

 

“Brienne...” urges Jaime, his head looking expectantly from side to side. “Either the boy comes along or we leave him, but we can't stay here – we'd best get a move on. Now.”

 

Brienne, however, remains patient. “Where are your parents, Olivar? Is it just you here?”

 

Olivar nods, trying his best not to cry, “T-the bad men came. Took momma...”

 

In that moment, Brienne's mind is made up. “Ser Jaime and I will keep you safe now, child.” she swears before hoisting the boy into her arms and rising to her feet.

 

“Are you certain of this, Lady Brienne?” asks Jaime, finally sheathing his blade. “We don't know who this child is, where he comes from, or if he's the bait for some bloody fucking trap...”

 

“Bait? I know you don't really believe that, Ser Jaime. You're a knight, sworn to protect the innocent; this boy is the epitome of that sacred oath. We must find his mother.” argues Brienne before adding, “And language, Jaime. Be mindful of yours around the child.”

 

“If she's still alive, you mean to say. There's no telling which 'bad men' took her. The Realm is crawling with them like a pestilence thanks to this bloody war.”

 

Brienne glares at him, her pale blonde brows crunching together. “That's why we have to find the boy's mother and the bad men – so we can bring the bad men to justice.”

 

Jaime gazes long and hard at the boy as he clings to Brienne, and remembers the old farmer they'd encountered during their trek across the Riverlands. Like this boy, that farmer also appeared harmless, even engaging in short conversation before going on his way. Brienne, true to both her naivete and staunch moral compass, had blatantly refused Jaime's calls for her to kill the man, believing him to be nothing more than a simple farmer. He'd turned out to be a snitch, having alerted Locke and his Brave Companions that he'd encountered the fugitive Kingslayer being escorted by a hulking blonde woman clad in armor... _Yet, surely this boy, skittish and filthy and skinny as a twig, is just that – a scared, dirty little boy_ , surmises Jaime to himself, hoping his gut instinct is right. 

 

"A word, Brienne. Alone." commands Jaime.

 

Brienne releases the boy. "Stay here, child." she advises before Jaime gently guides her to a more private spot.

 

Alone now, Jaime attempts to gather his thoughts. "While I'm well aware of the honor that flows through your veins, Brienne, remember the farmer we encountered in the Riverlands. Honor compelled you to spare his life--" 

 

Brienne bristles. "I can't believe you, Jaime!"

 

Jaime, however, is quick to quell her anger. "I am not suggesting that the boy should be killed. I am merely trying to suggest that perhaps it was not very wise to promise that child that we will find his mother. We don't know where she is, who the 'bad men' were that took her, or if she is even still alive. And besides that...," Jaime gathers Brienne into his arms. "You're with our child -- protecting _it_ should be your first instinct, not some random orphan child. Truly, my lady, you're as noble a knight as there ever was, but you're letting your honor get in the way of being able to see things clearly."

 

Brienne swallows hard, her chin wobbling. Perhaps, she reasons, Jaime is right -- maybe, instead of thinking she was obligated to save every downtrodden innocent she came across -- as she believed the good and honorable knights did -- perhaps she should focus on protecting those she loved, first and foremost. "...What do you suggest we do, then?"

 

"We simply don't know if the boy's mother is alive or dead, so my suggestion then becomes finding a good home for him on our way to Storm's End. We'll tend to him in the meantime -- bathe him, get some food in him -- but that's it. Does this suffice?"

 

Brienne nods, knowing it's the safest choice for all involved. It's a bitter pill she forces herself to swallow nevertheless.

 

Eventually, the pair return to Olivar's camp, where Jaime attempts to be friendly to their new travel companion by playfully ruffling his hair, to which Olivar shrinks back at, his eyes big with fear.

 

“Easy, lad... I'm not going to hurt even a hair on that pretty little head of yours. You have my word.” soothes Jaime.

 

He tries again, and this time, feels a smile tug at his mouth at Olivar's shy acceptance of his friendly gesture. “See, lad? Nothing to fear. Now then,” announces Jaime before beginning the walk back to their hobbled horses, “I think it would be best if we continued onward.”

 

 

 


	3. Lionheart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne finally breach The Stormlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings my lovelies! Whew, so much new Game of Thrones goodness has come our way in recent days! New photos, and how about that trailer? Jaime and Brienne look so good in it, and it was great to see Rhaegal (he's green, I like him. Don't judge me lol) and, oh man, so. Much. HYPE! Start preparing yourselves now my lovelies, because I have a hunch the final season is going to be one helluva ride! 
> 
> I'd like to give a quick shoutout to my fabulous assistant for helping me get this chapter down, offering suggestions on where to go with it, and just being supportive in general! <3

After a long day of riding – in which Jaime paid particularly keen attention to his and Brienne's new, albeit temporary, travel companion in spite of the fact that the child had slept in the crook of Brienne's arm through much of the ride – Jaime and Brienne settle for the night upon a simple tavern inn in the small village of Storm's Gate, having successfully breached The Stormlands after a near two month journey from Rivermouth; in spite of their accomplishment, however, past experiences have taught them not to simply rest upon their laurels, as there was no telling what dangers were waiting for them in the vastly forgotten, war-torn region.

 

As he secures his horse to the nearby hitching post, Jaime can't help but stop and look at Brienne hobbling her own mount and the way their newest travel companion looks to have taken a rather hasty fancy to her. And it terrifies Jaime in ways nothing ever has before. Nothing. He considered his late night trysts with his sister more exhilarating than terrifying; like the thick of a battle or a dance of swords. He'd relished all of them with unwavering confidence, knowing there was nothing to fear when it came right down to it – his incestuous relationship he would take to the grave; he was a member of the most powerful House in Westeros; and next to Ser Barristan Selmy, considered his abilities to be without parallel in all the Seven Kingdoms.

 

But one look at his sheathed stump poking out of the sleeve of his red leather riding jacket, and it's all Jaime Lannister needs to remind himself that he is no longer that man, having been reborn as something different. A crippled lion, yes, but also one far more conscious of the dangers provided by the unknown now that he could no longer simply hack and slash his way through whatever – or whomever – got in his way.

 

His eyes train themselves on the biggest unknown facing him at the moment: the young boy at the side of his soon-to-be lady wife and mother of his child. While Brienne, bless her altruistic and noble heart, had taken pity upon the child, that was precisely what Jaime was most afraid of – that Brienne's noble heart would end up being the death of her when she least expected it. _She's her own worst enemy_ , Jaime thinks to himself, _such kindness will get her killed..._

 

 _And yet...,_ he continues musing to himself, _perhaps that is the very thing this region needs right now, after having been ravaged and abandoned by would-be kings; the smallfolk could care less about whose entitled, self-righteous ass sits upon the Iron Throne. All they care about is that their bellies stay full, their lives remain undisturbed by the petty games the high lords and ladies play, and that hope reigns eternal even in the darkest of times. And now that Houses Lannister and Tarth are soon to join, perhaps Lady Brienne and I can be the hope the smallfolk of the Stormlands need..._

 

Jaime watches Brienne for a moment, awestruck by the sight of her – broad shouldered, scarred, an altogether imposing sight -- kneeling before Olivar, a sheathed Oathkeeper in her big pale hands while her eyes, so big and blue and beautiful, shimmer with a joy that strikes Jaime's heart a light. He watches as she smiles in appreciation of the boy's inquisitive nature, his small hand pointing with fervor at the parts that make up the Valyrian steel blade.

 

Jaime can't help but smile as scenes together with their own children play in his mind – Brienne, flushed and exhausted, holding their firstborn to her breast for the first time while the strong babe clutches Jaime's forefinger; the long nights keeping watch over the child sick with fever; teaching the cub how to walk and talk -- _Brienne will have my head should Tyrion attempt to teach them any dirty words,_ he thinks -- and once the child was old enough, how to fight. Boy or girl, it didn't matter to Jaime, just as it didn't matter to Brienne. While Jaime couldn't say the same for his father, it was of little concern to him. Jaime was a Lannister, yes, but _his_ _family_ , he vowed, would be nothing like his own in every way but name. _The Lannister name will live on, father. That should be enough for you..._

 

“ _Ser? Is everything all right?”_

 

Jaime comes from within himself. Brienne standing before him, her eyes large with curiosity whilst little Oliver holds her hand looking equally bemused. Jaime clears his throat. “Pardon?”

 

“Are you well, Ser Jaime?” asks Brienne after noticing the dreamy look in his eyes.

 

“Keeping it professional in front of the boy, I see,” he mumbles before opting to play along. “All is well, my lady. Let's go inside before we catch our deaths out here.”

 

Inside, however, as the stench of stale piss and vomit hits him across the face, and the sounds of ruckus laughter and foul jokes pierce his ears, Jaime immediately reckons that the swarthy little hole in the wall is no place for his expectant lady and their young travel companion. And one look over at Brienne and the look of dismay upon her face tells him her feelings on the matter are mutual as she guards her belly with one hand while the other holds tight to Oathkeeper.

 

“It's shelter,” Jaime reasons, but even he isn't convinced. It takes all of ten men to fill the room, all of whom look as if they have the biggest chip on their broad shoulders, their faces hardened from the fires of battle. The tavern's owner, contrary to his rowdy, drunk patrons, eyes the trio with suspicion. _Certainly wouldn't think twice about relishing in a bit of pillaging and raping_ , Jaime concludes of the men, his flesh hand having joined Brienne's upon her stomach.

 

“No,” she replies with gentle admonishment before glancing down at Olivar, having felt the boy cling to the long mail-infused tresses of her gambeson in earnest. “We'd be safer for the night elsewhere.”

 

“...I think you may be right, my lady. And I do not think the inn keeper approves of us much.” Jaime notes before turning to leave.

 

Just as Brienne turns to follow him, however, she freezes, having suddenly felt an odd sensation in her belly, here and gone in the blink of an eye. _I am rather ravenous_ , she notes without giving the pangs much thought before leaving the cacophony behind her alongside Olivar.

 

“Well, what do we do now, Ser?” she asks Jaime once outside before taking in a deep lungful of fresh air. “We're tired and hungry, and the child needs a proper bath.”

 

“Anything is better than this shithole, I reckon.” muses Jaime.

 

Brienne glares at him, incredulous. “Jaime!”

 

Jaime grins at Olivar. “You didn't hear that, did you lad?” he asks while ruffling the boy's dirty hair.

 

Olivar shakes his head.

 

“See, wench? No harm done. A few--” Jaime quickly grows quiet as his eyes pan over the boy and train themselves upon the large dark spot on the crotch of the boy's breeches. Jaime takes a knee, his flesh hand holding the child's shoulder. Olivar looks down at the knight, his brown eyes big and remorseful. But Jaime merely regards the boy with sympathy and a smile. “Did the big men scare you, boy? It's okay to be scared. That means you aren't a fool. Why, even grown men have been known to piss themselves in the thick of battle sometimes. Or worse.”

 

“Even you?” squeaks Olivar.

 

Jaime catches Brienne's lips curved into a gentle smile, her eyes urging him to connect with the young boy.

 

“...I did, yes,” Jaime eventually replies, sighing, remembering his first true taste of battle. “I was fifteen, an odd time in a man's life, to be certain – no longer a boy, yet not quite a man grown -- and serving as squire to Ser Barristan Selmy. As a young boy, around your age in fact, I dreamt of becoming just like him when I grew up, so you can imagine my utter excitement over serving as his squire. I didn't want to disappoint him. One day, Ser Barristan and I, along with Ser Arthur Dayne and several others, were dispatched to quell the Kingswood Brotherhood. In addition to being my first true taste of battle, it was also my first time killing a man.” Jaime ends his tale with a chuckle, ”I remember being wound so tight that I pissed myself afterwards.”

 

Olivar looks on, suddenly in awe, his embarrassment forgotten. “You squired for Ser Barristan, m'lord?”

 

Jaime nods. “One of the proudest moments of my life.” He regards this with a queer sense of irony and bitterness. For all that he was, had been been groomed to be from an early age – the Golden Son; heir apparent to Casterly Rock; the greatest swordsman since Arthur Dayne; the list went on – Jaime had very few moments to be proud of. So few, in fact, that he reckoned they could be counted on the only hand he had left. For now.

 

“Now be a good lad and prepare Lady Brienne's horse. You know how to do that, I trust?” Jaime asks.

 

Olivar appears uncertain.

 

“No? You can still be a good lad and keep the horses company, then. Go on, boy.”

 

Jaime turns his attention to Brienne while Olivar scampers off to play with the horses. “Well, get on with it, wench. Come at me with your jesting.” he goads while attempting to be nonchalant in spite of mentally bracing himself to be on the receiving end of a jape for once.

 

Instead, Brienne merely smiles at him, her face and eyes beaming with queer pride. “That was wonderful, Jaime. You did well by that child.”

 

Jaime runs a nervous hand through his golden brown hair, appearing atypically sheepish. He'd never been very child-friendly; he was more accustomed to building camaraderie with his fellow soldiers than strange children. While he still wasn't truly sure about young Olivar, however, Jaime had felt something akin to compassion for the boy beginning to take root in his heart during their conversation. He attempts to brush the strange tendril aside. “The boy had a problem and I helped, my lady. Nothing more...” He swallows the strange lump in his throat as he thumbs Brienne's midsection. “We'd do best to find a proper camp before full dark, Brienne. You and our little lion must be starving.”

 

* * *

 

"Wench, you'll have to get naked if you want to bath him properly."

 

"I will NOT!"

 

"Come on. You being naked is nothing I haven't already seen. We were both naked in Harrenhal when you bathed _and_ clothed me after I fainted in your arms. I promise this little one isn't going to leer at your tits and cunt like I did."

 

"JAIME!"

 

A Cheshire cat-like grin plays across Jaime's lips as he studies Brienne from afar, her clothes wet from breeches to jerkin thanks in no small part to little Olivar and his apparent love of the water, and how despite being soaked from pale blonde head to toe, it's the first time Jaime Lannister has ever heard the woman laugh out loud; deep and unabashed from the depths of her belly. And the sound, more of an upbeat cackle than a laugh, is music to his ears, much like how the sight of her, wet clothes hugging every inch of her big frame, tickles the decidedly carnal region between his legs. He pays particular attention to the soft swell of her stomach, made all the more apparent by the soggy nature of her jerkin; the fullness of her breasts; the chiseled strength of her arms and legs; _she is strength and gentleness at once_ , Jaime thinks, _as strong and fierce as a lion, with a heart as gentle as a maiden. And she is mine, just as I am hers._

 

It hadn't taken very long for them to find a suitable spot to make camp for the night. Truth be told, as tired as the three of them were, any place looked as good a place as any to rest and fill their bellies; for Brienne, the rigors of being with child only seemed to increase the heavier she became, and there was a generous part of her that wondered for how much longer she would be able to properly mount and ride her horse; her belly was now becoming a slight hindrance when it came to being able to mount her horse properly, and the long periods of time spent in the saddle only helped to aggravate her already aching back. Yet she'd found an odd sort of comfort in the whole thing in recent weeks; rather than feel disdain over the way the pregnancy had more or less been the gods' way of reminding her that, swords, armor and knightly vows aside, she was still very much a woman, Brienne had begun to embrace herself for who she was, rather than run from it.

 

After watching Brienne towel the boy off with her horse's saddle cloth, Jaime embraces her from behind, catching her off guard while she'd been watching the boy gather up fallen twigs for a fire. “Seven Hells, Jaime!” she yelps before settling herself in his embrace. “It's almost as if you _want_ to send me into early childbed.”

 

Jaime nuzzles her strong neck, his hand roaming her midsection. “Pregnancy has made you startle easily, it seems. Among other things...” He kisses her neck with a passion reserved for more private accommodations, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the two of them are far from alone. “...And for the record, even though you are only five moonturns, the longer our little lion stays inside of you, the better.”

 

Brienne cocks a pale blonde brow with interest. “Wishing to keep me barefoot and pregnant, is that it?” she asks with a slight grin.

 

Jaime utters a soft chuckle, his hand still tracing playfully along the soft swell of her stomach. “No. But the gods know I would be lying if I said I didn't find you to be absolutely fuckable right now...” Brienne can't stop the rouge from spreading from forehead to neck in response to everything that is Jaime Lannister; yet, she steels herself in spite of the carnal warmth beginning to pool deep in her loins. “...Not here, Jaime. Not in front of the child.”

 

Jaime gives her pale blonde head one last kiss before coming from her, his bearded face twisting into a look of mock offense. “Gods, wench, what do you take me for, a bloody Northerner?” he grins before fiddling with the sword at his hip, sparking Olivar's attention. “Come here, lad. There's something I want to show you.”

 

Olivar's face brightens. “Yes, m'lord!” he calls before setting down the pile of brush he's gathered and running to the knight.

 

He finds Jaime on one knee, holding the hilt of an ornate sword with his left hand whilst carefully cradling the Damascus blade between the crook of his elbow. Olivar's eyes light up. “Another _Oathkeeper_ , m'lord?”

 

Like Oathkeeper, Jaime's blade is vastly ornate, her hilt covered in Lannister gold from pommel to crossguard, where a fierce lion snarls in the center and holds the Valyrian steel blade in its maw, jeweled eyes the color of blood. “Not quite," Jaime replies with a subtle shake of his head. “But this blade and _Oathkeeper_ are sister swords, so it stands to reason that they bear similar looks.”

 

“Does it have a name, m'lord?”

 

“Sadly, no. Not yet, anyway.... Perhaps you can help me?” Jaime asks whilst cocking one of his brows.

 

It doesn't take the boy long to come up with a proper name, however. “... _Lionheart_ , m'lord.”

 

Jaime offers a slight smile, impressed. ”Rather proper, I should think. They say only the best swords have names, destined to live on long after their wielders have died.”

 

“Mama...used to tell me stories of how one man saved the entire city from the Mad King...” Olivar replies, trying his best to be strong in the knight's presence. “...She called him Ser Jaime the Lionheart.” His big brown eyes fixate on Jaime's own. “...She never forgot what you did for the people of the city that day, m'lord.”

 

Jaime's mouth falls agape, and it's all he can do to keep from falling on both knees. “You're--”

 

“You're from King's Landing,” Brienne finishes on Jaime's behalf.

 

Olivar nods. “I was born in Flea Bottom, m'lady, but mama had to flee the city after King Robert's death. Said the city had become too dangerous. She rode south for Storm's End.”

 

“So you and your mother settled in The Stormlands. And the bad men you spoke of when we found you, who are they?” asks Brienne with gentleness. “The ones who took your mother.”

 

“King Renly's brother, m'lady...” mumbles the boy. “After he claimed Storm's End.”

 

 _Stannis_ , Brienne tells herself, remembering that fateful night in Renly's tent. And the shadow. The shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon. Her brows suddenly point downward in anger. Olivar cowers in response, believing the big woman is mad at him. Her expression quickly softens. “Don't be afraid, child. I am not mad at you. I know whom you speak of, that's all. I hail from the island of Tarth, and served as a member of Renly's Kingsguard. He was like a brother to me...”

 

Suddenly uncomfortable, young Olivar changes the topic. “...I'm hungry m'lady, m'lord.”

 

The boy's announcement is enough to rattle Jaime from his stupor. He clears his throat. “Do you know what a squire is, lad?”

 

Olivar looks uncertain. "...Not really. I just...know they follow knights around and...and do things for 'em."

 

Jaime smiles. “That's absolutely right. Squires help knights help people. While you're too young to be a knight, you _are_ old enough to be a squire. And every knight worth his salt needs a strong, loyal squire to help him help others. How would you like to be mine, lad?"

 

Olivar appears beside himself, his heart-shaped face beaming from ear to ear. “Really, m'lord?”

 

“Really,” nods Jaime. “You've proven to be a capable young lad in spite of your small size, and as my brother likes to say, _'a very small man can cast a very large shadow.'_ And since Lady Brienne already has a squire of her own, well, perhaps I am feeling just a bit envious... So what say you?”

 

“I won't fail you, m'lord ser!” smiles Olivar, his two front teeth missing.

 

"Good. As your first task, you're to take care of Lady Brienne for me while I go fetch us something to eat. Can you do that for me?” asks Jaime while preparing his horse.

 

The boy gives a proud nod before Jaime wordlessly disappears into the dark of night.

 

* * *

 

After getting a nice fire going, Brienne peels away her first two layers of wet clothes in the hopes of being able to wring them of some of their moisture so they can dry properly. She does so without the faintest hint of apprehension nor embarrassment, a far cry from the bath she shared with Jaime at Harrenhal, where she had never been so thankful for the coverage of the water. Olivar seems far more fascinated by the way her arm muscles bulge with every forceful wringing of her garments than of the fact that she stands before him wearing nothing but her breeches and a thin tunic.

 

Until he does, however, notice a bulge of a different kind, piquing his interest. He points at it, curious. “Mama's tummy looked like yours, with my brother and sister.”

 

Brienne ceases her work and turns to face him. She rests one of her big hands upon her belly, still unsure about the strange fluttering within. “Oh? Are you the oldest?” she smiles.

 

Olivar nods before his look turns sad. “Mhmm. But one day...they didn't wake up...”

 

Brienne sympathizes with the boy, her look turning remorseful. “I'm sorry,” she replies, slinging her gambeson over her shoulder before joining Olivar on the large stump of a gnarled tree, the discussion having unlocked something within her. “I lost my siblings young as well; my brother Galladon downed when he was around your age. My twin sisters died in the cradle.”

 

Olivar sees her eyes growing moist, and quickly offers whatever words of encouragement come to mind. “I'm sorry for upsetting you, m'lady. I didn't mean to.”

 

Brienne shakes her head in gentle protest. “It's not your fault, child. Try as we might, sometimes terrible things happen; things we have no control over.” She moves to offer the boy a bit of comfort when her keen sense of hearing suddenly picks up rustling of nearby bushes, sending her into a heightened sense of awareness. “Don't move,” she whispers before making haste for Oathkeeper, promptly wielding it in her big paw.

 

When Olivar attempts to speak, Brienne quickly cuts him off before resuming her scan of the area in front of her. She strains to see in the darkness, with only the muted glow of the nearby fire to light her way.

 

The thick brush before the warrior woman suddenly – strangely – hisses and trembles. Brienne holds tight to Oathkeeper before moving into her ready stance. “Show yourself and I will grant you mercy. Refuse, and suffer the consequences. Come forth!”

 

Brienne's command is met with more strange hissing. She bristles, hungry, tired, and in no mood for petty games. “Come out, now!”

 

A man nearly as big as Gregor Clegane bursts forth from the brush, eyes filled with bloodlust and mouth twisted into a snarl. Brienne quickly pushes Olivar out of harm's way before she's tackled by the bald beast of a man, his teeth rotten and filed down to razor sharp points; the man-beast sinks his teeth into her face from nose bridge to cheek, savagely ripping away her flesh. Brienne screams in agony from the pain, yet continues to struggle under the foul creature's weight, straining with all her might to reach for Oathkeeper's lion pommel.

 

Olivar watches the chaos unfold before his very eyes, terror filling him. Yet he steels himself in spite of the tears streaming down his face, knowing he must not fail Ser Jaime. _For Ser Jaime_ , he tells himself determinedly, looking for something he can use... _For Ser Jaime... For m'lady Brienne..._

 

“Sssss!” hisses the vile man-beast, his foul mouth opening once more, rancid breath sending a quiver of revolt through Brienne's belly. Brienne grunts with the effort of keeping him from feasting once more upon her flesh, when his big bald head suddenly kicks forward, having been struck by a large rock.

 

“Leave her alone!” yells Olivar.

 

“Olivar! Run!” commands Brienne, her face half covered in blood and tattered flesh. She watches as the crazed feral man turns on her, having set his sights on the child, and uses the opportunity to reach for Oathkeeper before clambering to her feet, memories of her battle against The Mountain rushing back to her in vivid torrents. She'd been a fool to show that beast any semblance of mercy, only to suffer for it. Beasts, she'd come to understand, deserved no mercy. She wouldn't be making that mistake again. Not for her baby; not for Jaime; Olivar; herself; the honor she once held sacred; Brienne lunges forth with a roar, thrusting her blade clean through the creature's massive back, felling him instantly.

 

Olivar makes haste for Brienne's side and attempts to help keep her standing in spite of their massive discrepancies in height. “Ser Jaime told me to take care of you in his absence, so that's what I'm goin' to do, m'lady!”

 

Brienne wobbles precariously on her feet, wincing as the air bites at the open gash on her face, her vision drenched in blood. Several swarthy – and downright strange-looking – men surround her. A serpent-like, decidedly impish looking man, dressed in green and pink motley with crazed eyes, wielding a three-headed flail; a swarthy-looking man with sunken eyes whose helm is adorned with a red scarf; a decidedly squat, bulky man covered in dark hair, his face masked by a helm. The men leer and eye their prey like a pack of rabid curs upon a fresh kill.

 

Brienne grits her teeth in response to the searing pain gnawing at her face; to the frustration of knowing her condition impedes what would otherwise be an easy fight. She curses within her mind, eyes fierce. “Get behind me, child. Now!” she barks to Olivar as the men slither forth.

 

The sound of hoofbeats rumble like distant thunder. Not too far off, but far enough, Brienne thinks, her eyes watching the men carefully. She wonders who will attack first; while they all appear dangerous, her gut instinct compels her to watch the madman in the green and pink motley with particular interest. She feels Olivar cling to her in fear, his courage spent. Brienne reminds him to be strong, “Fear cuts deeper than swords, child. Never let them see your tears...”

 

The hoofbeats grow increasingly louder until the air is alive with their sound, only to quickly cease behind the already outnumbered Brienne. _Reinforcements?_ she thinks with a sickening pang of dread before a band of armed men suddenly flank her and Olivar. Her eyes suddenly bulge in surprise and relief in recognition of the man next to her.

 

“Gods, I leave you and the lad alone for a spell, and the two of you go and get yourselves into trouble,” snickers Jaime to her left, wielding Lionheart awkwardly with his left hand. “Couldn't catch anything for dinner, but was able to procure a dwarf, a sellsword and an aging squire instead. Hopefully th--”

 

“J-Jaime... Can't...” Brienne stammers and stumbles, woozy from her grievous facial injury. Her vision, already hampered by the dark of night, grows darker still as her knees give way beneath her. Her big body plummets backward, limp and dead, vision continuing to tunnel, the voices of men screaming and sounds of steel clashing and slicing through flesh growing fuzzy around her.

 

As she fades, however, a weak smile dances across her face as she feels her belly quicken, the sensation filling her with bitter sweetness before the world around her falls into uncertain darkness...

 

“ _Brienne!”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have gathered (I hope, at least), I played with the design of Oathkeeper's sister sword known hereafter as Lionheart; no stags to be found, but I liked the idea of the Baratheon stag head in the center of the hilt; I merely switched it for a lion head. Clever, I know, lol. But hey, I know what it looks like in my head, and it's awesome! :D


	4. Dreams Unwind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, my lovelies! Back again with another chapter! The 8th and final season of Game of Thrones is almost upon us! My hype meter is already at capacity and I'm not sure how much more I can take before I go crazy, wah! Especially when it comes to our favorite dorks in love (and no, I'm not talking about Jonerys or Brienne/Tormund, the latter of which I'm wondering why is still even a thing at this point...) and preparing myself for The Bang That Was Promised... ;) 
> 
> Season 8 hype aside, this chapter took a bit longer to hammer out than I would have liked, but that's only because I've been rewatching Game of Thrones lately in preparation for the final season (gotten up to season 7) and dealing with personal health problems. Hopefully the next chapter won't take quite as long. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments thus far. Y'all are fabulous and give me reason to keep writing <3 
> 
> **UPDATE 4/12/19** Unfortunately, this might be the last chapter for a little while -- for the next week at least -- as I've been doing battle against the Shingles -- yes, that virus people mistakenly think just "happens to old people" -- for the past week and it's fucking brutal. But I'm on meds to help clear it up faster, 2 weeks compared to the usual 4 to 5 weeks without treatment, so I'll hopefully be back with another chapter soon my lovelies!**

_Hot, putrid breath wafts across her face. The horrible, rotten breath of The Stranger come to claim its pound of flesh under the guise of a mad, vile beast with the face and body of a man, his pupils the size of pin pricks and mad with bloodlust. Against him, even her strength is as nothing, no matter how much she struggles beneath his imposing bulk. Her eyes bulge at the sight of his mouth -- that disgusting, vile mouth full of rotten, pointed teeth and bits of her flesh and blood – spreading itself wide open once more in preparation to again feast upon her pale, mottled flesh. Her eyes force themselves closed, her vision falling into darkness as her lips part as if to speak, to call out for anyone who will listen –_ Jaime! Jaime, where are you?! _– to ask the savage for mercy, or the Gods for assistance; she breaks into tears, knowing she will be granted no such mercy..._

 

“ _Brienne!”_

 

“Jaime!” she screams, sitting bolt upright in bed with her face covered in sweat, chest and broad shoulders heaving beneath her pale blue shift. Slivers of murky morning sunshine filter through her small chamber window, but not much else, thank the Seven... No repugnant smells of eminent death, no savage beast atop her with his teeth dripping of her blood... Just the sight of him. Jaime. _Her_ Jaime, his mere presence bringing her frazzled mind some semblance of comfort.

 

“Ease, Brienne. Ease. You're all right now.” he tells her, gently blotting a damp cloth against her forehead before kissing it in an attempt to soothe her. “I'm here. Your fever must have finally broke, thank the gods.”

 

Brienne is slow to settle down in Jaime's arms, her heart thundering sickly in her chest, lungs gulping for calming breaths. “J-Jaime, what's going on...why can't I see?!” she stammers, fearing that her attacker's savagery may have left her partially blind and no longer able to fight.

 

Jaime reassures her with another soft kiss to her forehead. “That side of your face had to be wrapped after being tended to in the field, and will have to remain that way for a while longer, I'm afraid. But I assure you, your sight is perfectly fine.” He brushes a stray lock of sweaty blonde hair from her eyes. “You've been delirious with fever for the past few days after your wound quickly became infected.” He takes a breath, only to sigh. “After this latest incident, I'm truly of the mind to think those seven vengeful cunts are using you to spite me in the hopes that I may atone for my sins. Become one of those batshit crazy Sparrows.”

 

His arms snake their way around Brienne's waist mindful of her belly, while his head finds refuge against her broad shoulder. “Forgive me for saying but, are you certain you're not trying to send me to an early grave, wench?” he asks with a nervous chuckle before his tone turns apprehensive, his hold around Brienne instinctively tightening. “Seven Hells, Brienne... When I saw you collapse and a chunk of your face had been torn away, I felt my blood turn cold. I thought I'd lost you again...”

 

Brienne returns Jaime's heartfelt embrace, her body still rife with nervous energy from her fever dream. “It all happened so fast... I barely managed to push Olivar away before the savage was upon me and digging his teeth into my face...” Like Jaime's, her head finds solace against his shoulder. They simply sit there, motionless; merely breathing, merely enjoying each other's warmth and comfort. Even with the terror still vivid in her mind, Brienne allows her eyes to fall closed. Her thoughts drift. Some are dark and terrifying, others are clear and warm, while still others are cloudy and confusing. Yet they all share a common attribute: Jaime Lannister. That no matter what happens, Jaime would always be there, as she would be for him...

 

Opening her eyes, she finds that her hold around him has tightened in the process.

 

“Brienne? Are you all right?” asks Jaime, concerned by the simple gesture.

 

“I was just thinking is all.” Brienne muses.

 

He sounds curious. “Oh? What about?”

 

Brienne draws a breath as if to prepare herself. She's never been very good at being open in the company of others during those rare moments when they weren't laughing at or mocking her. But this was Jaime of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, soon to be her lord-husband and father to her first child; he was about as far from an ordinary person as one could possibly be. And Brienne trusted him with her life. “...You, Jaime. That no matter what happens, you'll always be there for me, just as I will be for you. Whatever happens.”

 

Jaime breaks away to steal a quick glance at Brienne's pregnant stomach, a grin ghosting across his face. “Sounds like being with our little lion has done more than just changed your body, my lady.” He teases. Brienne huffs, ready to reprimand Jaime's jape, but is quickly quelled by an apologetic from him. “All jesting aside, of course I'll always be there for you. Just as you will be there for me. I've no doubt of that. Whatever happens.”

 

In spite of the comfort she feels in Jaime's arms at the moment, however, so too does she feel her insecurities begin to crop up once more as she reluctantly parts from him to palm the bandaged side of her face. She has yet to see what lies beneath the bandages, yet knows it will only accentuate her already ungainly appearance. “It's going to leave a scar, isn't it? Like what happened to your brother's face?” Her chin suddenly quivers, her eyes having focused on something other than Jaime's face. “Great, lumbering, beast...”

 

“Brienne...look at me. Please.” Jaime pleads, forcing her chin up with his finger. He cups her bare cheek. "You're no such thing, Brienne. And until you finally get that through that thick, beautiful head of yours, I'm going to keep reminding you of that. It was the monster who bit you who was a beast, not you. Thank the Seven you killed him." He moves to place a gentle kiss upon her sweaty forehead. “You truly are Brienne The Brave, my lady. That is yet another beast you've slayed for the betterment of the Realm.”

 

“And just what was so special about this most recent one?”

 

“According to Ser Bronn, the men were members of the Brave Companions sellsword company, a group so exponentially cruel they make The Mountain look tame by comparison, though they aren't what I would call particularly skilled fighters. Not by the length of my cock,” grins Jaime. “Had I still my sword hand, I've no doubt I'd been able to cut them all down with one hand, while pissing with my left--”

 

“Jaime.” Brienne interrupts, intent on getting him back on track. “The group and its men. My attacker. What else did Ser Bronn reveal about them to you?”

 

Jaime continues. “The group goes by a few names, most notably as The Bloody Mummers due to their diverse ranks, and is led by a man known only as Urswyck The Faithful. Apparently our friend Locke had been a member before being recruited by Lord Bolton in his quest to bring me back to Robb Stark. Bronn was able to identify your attacker after we cut the rest of them down; he's simply referred to as “Biter” due to his pointed teeth and penchant for mauling innocents like a rabid cur -- he told me of a known incident in which Biter notably chewed the nipples and tits off a tavern girl after a misunderstanding. Other members during the battle were Shagwell The Fool, a psychotic jester; Timeon, a Dornish spearman identifiable by the red scarf he wears on his helm; and Rorge, a stout man covered in thick hair and said to be Biter's 'handler' of sorts. It is known Rorge discovered him as an orphan and raised him feral in order to fight in Rorge's dog and bear fighting pit in Flea Bottom.”

 

Brienne feels the icy fingers of the Stranger dance down her spine afterwards. “Seven Hells. That's just _lovely_.”

 

“Do you understand now, Brienne? Had you not slaughtered than swine, then he surely would have someone else. Or you, or our cub, gods forbid.”

 

Her hands instinctively move to shield her stomach even though the threat posed by the savage Biter has long since passed. “I did next to nothing, Jaime. Olivar was the real hero. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him. Where is he?”

 

“Downstairs with Tyrion, Bronn and Podrick at breakfast. I think it's the first time he's eaten anything since we arrived here; he was rather adamant about staying with you through the worst of the fever. He was...scared you and our cub wouldn't make it through that first night...”

 

Brienne hears none of it, however, as her attention is suddenly focused squarely on the troubling sensations swirling about her stomach. She rests her clammy hand against her shift. “Hush!” she snaps, inadvertently sounding harsher than she'd intended. “There's...,” she stammers, heart beating once more with nauseating fear, unable to bring herself to finish. But she swallows hard and steels herself, knowing Jaime must be made aware. “...There's something wrong, Jaime. I can feel it.”

 

Jaime's hand finds Brienne's own. Despite the alarm in his eyes, however, his voice remains unperturbed. “Brienne, I need you to be specific so I can send for help. Please, tell me what's wrong.”

 

Brienne, fretful and on edge, unintentionally snaps once more at her concerned partner. “Godsdamn it, Jaime, don't you think I would tell you if I knew what the bloody Hells was wrong?!” Tears begin down her face in fear and frustration as she continues to palm her belly. “Something just is – I can feel it!”

 

Jaime attempts to calm her. “If there is something wrong with the baby, then you're not doing it nor yourself any favors by getting distraught, Brienne. Look at me, sweetling.” His hand guides Brienne's chin up so her eyes are gazing into his own. “Breathe.” he commands gently.

 

“You breathe,” she replies with annoyance while reaching for his hand. “You breathe and tell me I've gone completely mad – that what I'm feeling is perfectly normal!”

 

A thick silence soon descends upon the small room the moment Jaime's hand rests firmly against the soft swell of her abdomen. He gazes at it, pensive, whilst trying to keep his breathing level, when a barely tangible flutter registers against his middle finger, quickly followed by another blip against his thumb, and soon another against his palm. Jaime's look turns from pensive to equal parts disbelief and happiness, the breath having been knocked out of him. “Gods, Brienne...,” gasps Jaime, unable to contain the smile threatening to burst forth.

 

Brienne cocks a brow, concerned. “Jaime – what is it?”

 

His face is positively alight as his lips suddenly find hers. “You're not mad, and nothing is wrong with our child, Brienne,” he smiles, keeping his hand still, not wanting to miss even a moment in spite of the fact that Brienne's womb is positively alive with little ripples of movement. “Our cub has begun to stir,” smiles Jaime. “And rather vigorously, I might add. Surely you can feel it?”

 

“What? You mean...,” comes Brienne's breathless reply as she looks at their hands, feeling the ripples against her palm. “But how can you be so certain?”

 

Jaime's look turns to one of fond remembrance. "Because I'll never forget that feeling for as long as I live. When my mother was with Tyrion, sometimes when he would stir inside her, she would let Cersei and I feel it. It didn't happen often, but when it did, I can remember being excited to have a baby brother. Even Cersei was excited." Jaime's face soon grows solemn. “...Of course, after his birth and my mother's death – which Father and Cersei still blame him for – well, let's just say I took my role as a big brother very seriously. For Mother. Because I knew that's what she would have wanted; because I knew I was the only one standing between him and the vengeance of my sister and father; because that's what a true lion of Lannister does for the good of his House and his pride – rather than simply spin tales about it.”

 

Brienne raises her hand to cup Jaime's bearded cheek. “I'm sorry, Jaime. If it's any consolation, I know you still love Tyrion, and he still loves you...” She finds her voice trailing off, suddenly uncertain about the words threatening to spill from her mouth. “Forgive me for saying so but, perhaps it's time for you to extend to your baby brother an olive branch, Jaime. Not only for the benefit of your House, but for the benefit of your bond as brothers and for the benefit of our child should...something happen...”

 

Jaime's gaze turns fierce, full of devotion to the woman before him. “I love you, Brienne. I am yours and you are mine. Never ask me for forgiveness when it comes to speaking your mind. Never, understand? Only a coward would strike his lady for speaking her mind. As for my brother, I suppose I can no longer bear him any ill will after he explained his reasons for traveling this far south.”

 

“What did he tell you?”

 

“He was afraid you and I were in danger; told me about seeing the raven I'd sent to my father. Somehow he was able to read the letter for himself. With my sister still convinced he murdered Joffrey, Tyrion knew he wasn't safe in King's Landing, so he gathered up Bronn and Podrick and headed south in hopes of finding us before somebody else did.”

 

Elaborating no further, Jaime instead guides their joined bodies to rest upon the featherbed and bends to lovingly kiss her stomach before resting his head upon it as if it were a pillow. “Your uncle Tyrion can't wait to meet you, my little lion or lioness,” he smiles, eyes falling closed at the gentle touch of Brienne's long fingers combing lazily through his shaggy hair. “ _We_ cannot wait to meet you...”

 

In spite of the serenity of the quiet moment, however, Jaime suddenly can't help but think back to Brienne's words of uncertainty regarding guardianship of their child should anything happen to both of them. The Stormlands were a power vacuum; the realm itself was in a state of perpetual uncertainty; he'd been hearing rumors of the Targaryen girl and her exploits across the Free Cities for a long while. Rumors of her three dragons and how they were continuing to grow in size and ferocity, one of whom was said to be the reincarnation of the legendary Balerion the Dread himself... _Should she succeed in sailing across The Narrow Sea...,_ Jaime catches himself thinking, suddenly uneasy. The chilling notion is enough to force him into an upright stance and take Brienne's hands into his own. 

 

Brienne looks upon him with concern having noticed the suddenly solemn look in his eyes. “Jaime, what's wrong?”

 

His adam's apple bobs as he swallows. “...Perhaps we should...consider being wed at Storm's End, Brienne. Or sooner.” He advises.

 

Brienne merely gawks at him as if he's grown a second head. “...And what, pray tell, prompted this?” 

 

“It is sudden, I know. But please bear with me and listen, that's all I ask.”

 

“I'm listening.” She sighs. “Go on.”

 

Jaime gathers his thoughts, hoping they come out as fluidly as they are in his mind. “What you said about extending an olive branch to Tyrion for the sake of our House, and for the sake of the baby should anything happen... The Stormlands have become a power vacuum in the years since Renly's murder and Stannis' crusade to claim the Iron Throne. And it's become all too clear just how much the people have suffered in the wake of this war – how much they will suffer in the wars to come, if the rumors of the Targaryen girl end up coming to fruition. I trust you've heard of them?”

 

Brienne nods, the bulk of which she'd heard during her time in King's Landing. Tales of how Daenerys had punished her powerful Qartheen ally, Xaro Xhoan Daxos, and her own handmaiden by locking the pair in Xaro's own vault after a supposed betrayal, then commanded her Dothraki retainers to sack the city; her conquest of Astapor and subsequent acquisition of her Unsullied army; how she burned anyone who so much as debated her claim over the Iron Throne with dragon fire... _Just like King Aerys_ , Brienne thinks to herself, remembering Jaime's confession in the bath house at Harrenhal. _Perhaps it's true, then, that old saying about the Targaryens – every time a Targaryen is born, the Gods flip a coin..._

 

“Should that day come, it's important that we show a united front, from the Stormlands to the Westerlands, and everything in between. That begins with doing right by the Stormlanders; the smallfolk need someone they can believe in, somebody who truly cares about _them_ first and foremost _,_ not just the prospect of power, lands, and titles.” His eyes light up as a gentle smile dances across his face. “I've seen the way young Olivar has taken quite a fancy to you, Brienne. Dare I say, I'm almost envious. You've given that boy a bit of hope and happiness in just the short time he's been traveling with us. And that is exactly what the people of this region need right now...”

 

Brienne sits in silence while she begins to process Jaime's argument that they be married at Storm's End – the site of Renly's death – instead of Tarth as they'd originally planned. The very fact that she was witness – and suspect – to Renly's death that fateful night, makes her stomach twist with unease about the prospect of marrying in the same place she'd held him that blustery cold night as the light faded from his eyes, marrying into the very House he'd pledged to Lady Catelyn he would tear asunder for Lord Stark's wrongful execution.

 

She eventually takes Jaime's hand and stump gently into her big paws. “I'm sorry, Jaime... but I can't. Not there, at least. It...wouldn't be right.”

 

Jaime frowns, looking equal parts hurt and angry; his jaw tenses, lips purse into a colorless line. He averts his eyes elsewhere in the hopes that doing so will keep him from saying something he will ultimately regret. And yet, he cannot stop himself in spite of this. “Gods, Brienne, when are you going to get over him, over what happened that night?!” he lashes out in frustration before drawing a calming breath. “I know how much he meant to you for what he did that night at the ball; how he showed you respect and compassion while others have only shown you only contempt and pity. But...,” he pauses to sit back down. Meets Brienne's gaze with tenderness. “Renly is dead, my lady... Keep him in your heart, but do not allow his memory to cloud your judgment. Otherwise, you'll never glimpse what is right in front of you.”

 

Brienne cups Jaime's cheek in her right hand while palming her stomach with her left, her eyes growing moist with tears and face red. “Jaime... I love you with everything that I am. Truly. But Storm's End is not my home. Tarth is my home. And was that not one of the reasons you defied your father's order that we marry at Casterly Rock – so that we could wed and birth our child on Tarth?”

 

Jaime concedes her point with a nod. “Yes it was...you're right. Forgive me, Brienne. I seem to have become most forgetful in my old age.”

 

Brienne crinkles her brow, skeptical. “'Old age?' You're only forty, you lout!” she teases.

 

“You wound me, my dear lady wife.” Jaime replies, feigning as if he's just been greatly offended before crawling towards her by way of his hand and stump. His gaze aligns with Brienne's for a moment before he pours every ounce of himself into a languid kiss upon her lips. Brienne parts from Jaime's mouth, her long arms drawing around his leather-clad back. Their noses nuzzle before more kisses come and go between them; Brienne holds tight to Jaime, the buckles of his doublet digging into her chest. Jaime pulls away, gathering his lost breath, his fierce, deep azure eyes never leaving Brienne's gaze. His left hand finds her strong cheek, desire pooling in his belly...

 

Which is promptly vanquished by the sound of the door groaning open behind him and the sound of a throat clearing. “Perhaps we should come back later?”

 

_Tyrion?_ Jaime moves to sit next to Brienne, who's face is bright pink from her forehead to her neck with embarrassment. Unlike her, however, Jaime makes no attempt to conceal his displeasure at being intruded upon. “Seven Hells, why didn't you knock before barging in here like a damned fool?” 

 

But Tyrion isn't alone; Bronn, Podrick and Olivar are in tow behind him. Jaime draws a sigh. He'd completely forgotten about the meeting he'd planned with Tyrion regarding the group's next plan of action after Brienne's fever unexpectedly broke. “...I apologize for yelling at you, Tyrion. I remember now. Our meeting.” He eyes the others. “All of you, come in.” 

 

Olivar breaks for Brienne's bedside, happiness twinkling in his eyes at the sight of the lady knight sitting upright and alert. “M'lady, you're awake!”

 

Brienne smiles at him, her big hand finding his shoulder. “It warms my heart to see you, child. I hope my appearance doesn't frighten you.”

 

Olivar shakes his head, his dark brown hair bouncing. “Never, m'lady.” His big brown eyes gaze curiously at her pregnant stomach. “Is the baby okay, m'lady?”

 

Brienne nods, preparing to speak, when she's interrupted by Bronn. “I'm sure the kid is fine, boy. Now be a good lad and go wait outside while the grown folks talk.”

 

Jaime glares in the sellsword's direction. “The boy is my squire. He stays.” He stands then, only to kneel before the child. “You remember what I told you about squires helping their knight to help others?”

 

“Yes m'lord, Ser.” Olivar replies.

 

“We still have a way to go in our journey, lad. With the region being what it is, all of us will need to be ready for whatever may come along the way so we can protect Lady Brienne and her baby; she can't fight anymore because she's injured and soon to become heavy with child, so it's important we do our best to keep her safe.”

 

Olivar looks at Jaime, uncertain. “But how can _I_ help, m'lord, Ser? I'm just a commoner.”

 

Jaime reaches for the sheathed dagger at his side. The same dagger he regretfully remembers holding between his own brother's eyes, poised to run him through, at the time having been so convinced of Tyrion being the one to blame for Brienne's near death trial by combat against Gregor Clegane, and being so wrought with fear of losing his beloved on account of his dwarf brother's stupidity. Jaime carefully hands the sheathed weapon to the boy. “Our House has a saying, _'A Lannister Always Pays His Debts.'_ And I owe you such a debt, Olivar, for doing your best to keep my lady safe in my absence; you very well may have saved two lives that night. I want you to have this dagger and think about what it is I can do to repay you for your bravery. Understand?”

 

Olivar gazes at the golden-hilted dagger adorned with a lion head on the pommel. “Thank you, m'lord, Ser. But I...” The boy averts his eyes, abashed. “...I don't know how to fight.”

 

Jaime smiles at Olivar. “Not yet you don't. But there's something there, otherwise you wouldn't be standing here right now.”

 

Bronn throws up his hands in sudden protest. “Don't look at me. I ain't teaching the little runt how to fight.”

 

“M'lady Brienne can teach me.” suggests the boy.

 

Tyrion, however, is quick to nip the suggestion in the bud. “I'm not sure she's in any condition to even stand, Olivar, much less train you how to fight. As my brother said, Lady Brienne is in a rather delicate condition and will be for some time. It is of grave importance that she take it easy in the moons to come.”

 

It's Brienne's turn to protest, however. “I appreciate your concern, Lord Tyrion. While I do agree that I must take it easy from now on, that does not mean I'm just going to sit around gestating; I can still speak and give direction to both Olivar and Ser Jaime, provided they are willing to listen.” Her eyes regard Jaime with particular interest. “In addition to leading the training, Ser Bronn will correct their stances should I deem it necessary. And he will not fight with dishonor. Are these terms understood, Ser Bronn?”

 

Bronn looks as if he wants to protest the lady knight's orders, but knowledge of her past deeds forces him to keep his misgivings quiet. “Aye, my lady. Besides, after what you did to The Mountain and now Biter, I'd be a fool to argue with ya!”

 

* * *

 

“Has there been any word about my brother and that sow he intends to marry, Father?”

 

Tywin Lannister glares at his only daughter from across his chamber, having been in the middle of reading the latest developments on the growing threat of the self proclaimed Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, as she makes her way across Slaver's Bay gathering allies to her cause of returning to Westeros and taking her rightful place atop the Iron Throne. Along with a handful of trusted advisers and her three quickly maturing dragons, Daenerys has sacked the cities of Qarth, Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen and amassed an army of roughly eight thousand highly-skilled eunich warriors known collectively as the Unsullied. While all three of her dragons had now grown to be palpable threats in their own right, the biggest and most aggressive of them, Drogon, was reported to now be large enough for Daenerys to mount and ride into battle...

 

“No. And you will hold your tongue if you don't intend to lose it; you are speaking of a highborn lady soon to become a Lannister – you will show Lady Brienne the proper respect. Now, what is so pressing that you felt the need to disturb me?” he asks, putting the letter aside at his desk.

 

Cersei sits before her father and pours herself a glass of wine. “What is to become of Qyburn? He's done nothing to that co--” Cersei quickly catches herself. “--Lady Brienne nor the child she claims is Jaime's. Quite the contrary, in fact. He has done nothing but prove himself to be a loyal servant to our family and our cause.”

 

Tywin straightens up in his chair. “Are you denying your own brother's account of what transpired in Rivermouth, then?”

 

Cersei nurses her wine, casual in her response. “Not denying it so much as implying he was coerced into it.”

 

Even Tywin finds himself grinning in amusement at his daughter's accusation. “Coerced? I hardly believe Lady Brienne is the type, my dear.” His look returns to its typical stoicism. “Perhaps a bit too bound by honor, but that is by and large a far better vice to have than be what you've become in the wake of Jaime's betrothal and death of King Joffrey.”

 

Cersei remains smug. “And just what is that, Father?”

 

The Lannister patriarch makes no attempt to mince his words. “You have on many occasions made great claims about your commitment to our family's future, yet lately you have shown yourself to be a petty ingrate far more concerned with fulfilling your own selfish whims of revenge ever since Jaime pledged to betroth Lady Tarth and King Tommen wedded Margaery Tyrell; you have done nothing but attempt to undermine that very future at every opportunity. The only reason you are here right now and not locked in a cell is because you are my daughter. Because you are a _Lannister_! And Lannisters do not act like fools!”

 

Cersei counters with bitterness. “And what would you call what Jaime is doing, bringing that great cow into our fold and turning us into a laughing stock in the face of our enemies?”

 

The Lannister patriarch, however, has already prepared a barb of his own. “I would call it doing right by his family and our legacy – which is far more than what you are doing at present to make sure our family name lives on long after I am dead and returned to the dirt. Why have you still not yet consummated your betrothal to Ser Loras?”

 

“I'm hardly his type, in case you didn't know.”

 

”A feeble excuse. If you are truly as committed to this family as you claim, prove it – prove to me your devotion to your family and its legacy. You will consummate your marriage to Ser Loras and allow him to put a child in your belly.”

 

“I will not! I am Queen Mother, not some broodmare!”

 

Tywin is calm. “Jaime is securing the Stormlands. You will do right by our family and secure the Reach. Your roles in the future of House Lannister are now more vital than ever. For as the reputation and power of the Targaryen girl continues to grow, so too does the threat of her dragons, one of which, Drogon, is rumored to now be large enough to ride into battle. It is only a matter of time before she attempts to cross the Narrow Sea and conquer Westeros.”

 

“Father, don't make me do it again, please. And do not force me to separate from my baby boy – he is all I have left in this world! My place is here in King's Landing, at his side!” Begs Cersei, her voice breaking with atypical desperation. “I do not care about that little silver-haired bitch and her beasts! All I care about is protecting my son, the King!”

 

Tywin rises with haste, voice full of firm authority. “Not another word! You are my daughter, you'll do as I command!”

 

Cersei also rises, her voice breaking with defiance. “I will _burn_ our House to the ground before I let that happen!" 

 

Without so much as another word, the enraged Queen Mother storms toward the doors...

 


End file.
